


stop haunting my dreams (please set me free)

by orphan_account



Series: said and done [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Ghost Geralt, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22689559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He remembers lute callused fingers futility holding his tattered cloak to the gaping wound. He remembers Jaskier babbling, rambling about how he would be okay. About oh dear god Geralt, c’mon, you’ve got to be okay. He remembers tears filling cornflower blue eyes, overflowing onto smooth cheeks when Geralt can’t even muster a sound in response. He remembers reaching up, gently touching Jaskier’s face and leaving streaks of red behind. He remembers...nothing.Definitely dead then.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: said and done [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632820
Comments: 20
Kudos: 147





	stop haunting my dreams (please set me free)

**Author's Note:**

> i know everyone is gonna be writing fluff for valentine's day but i've always been a rebel. also i'm playing suuuuper fast and loose with canon so....ya

Geralt is...well, Geralt is pretty sure he died. He remembers a numbing pain, radiating from the hole in his stomach. He remembers coughing up sticky-warm blood. He remembers thinking of Jaskier and how at least he got to kill the monster before it got to the bard. He remembers wishing to have just an hour longer, to tell Jaskier everything hadn’t known how to before.

He remembers lute callused fingers futility holding his tattered cloak to the gaping wound. He remembers Jaskier babbling, rambling about how he would be okay. About oh dear god Geralt, c’mon, you’ve got to be okay. He remembers tears filling cornflower blue eyes, overflowing onto smooth cheeks when Geralt can’t even muster a sound in response. He remembers reaching up, gently touching Jaskier’s face and leaving streaks of red behind. He remembers...nothing. 

When he comes to in a tavern and locks eyes with Jaskier, who is singing in a corner on the other side of the room, his first thought is that Jaskier must’ve saved him somehow. He’s seen the bard do crazier things in a shorter amount of time. But then Jaskier pales, like he’s seen a ghost, and when Geralt opens his mouth to call his name, sticky-cold blood splatters onto the floor, onto the shoes of the barmaid who just _walked through him_. She doesn’t even notice, doesn’t respond aside from a brief shiver and a mutter about some kind of draft.

Definitely dead then. 

Death wasn’t any kinder to Geralt than life had been. He had come back with the gaping wound still in his stomach, with congealed blood crusting around his mouth, his nose, making the black of his leather even darker. 

Across the room, Jaskier faints. 

The tavern’s occupants rush the bard up to his room and lay him out on the bed. They set his lute by the door and leave. Geralt stays behind, out of the way even though he’s intangible. 

In his sleep, Jaskier talks. He says Geralt’s name more often than not, interspersed with pleases and “Don’t you fucking die on me you bastard!” It hurts more than anything, seeing how much living with Geralt’s memory causes Jaskier pain. If Geralt could make him forget, to bring him peace, happiness, to bring that spark back to the bard’s eyes, he would. 

Geralt never expected to be remembered when he died. It wasn’t the Witcher way. He was tolerated at the best of times, spat on at the worst. But then Jaskier and his songs came along and changed his life for the better. People tolerated him at the worst of times, and actually looked grateful to see him at the best of times. 

Geralt never meant to leave Jaskier behind. 

Geralt never expected to love the loud-mouthed, impulsive troubadour. He hadn’t lied, that night in Cintra, when he said that he needed no one, and that he definitely didn’t want anyone needing him. But yet, to echo Jaskier’s sentiments, spoken that same night, here they were. 

Falling in love with Jaskier had been easy, like breathing. It came naturally with time, growing on cold winter nights when Jaskier would shiver his way to Geralt’s side, when Jaskier would offer up a soft-smile at Geralt over the dying campfire, when Jaskier would help Geralt with the guts and gore in his hair without asking and with minimal complaints. 

It grew until Geralt couldn’t ignore the swelling feeling in his chest when he looked at the poet. But Geralt wasn’t the one good with words, had never found the right string of them to express his feelings to the bard. He knew that Jaskier at least cared for him back, but he never wanted Jaskier to think that he was being tied down. Jaskier loved often and loved freely, Geralt knew this, but he never knew how deeply the love ran. 

He’d gotten a glimpse once, that day on the lake when Jaskier, reeking of heartbreak and cheap booze, had stumbled on him fishing for a djinn. And if Jaskier loved that deeply for all of his paramours, then Geralt wasn’t going to limit him. 

Jaskier stirs on the bed, sitting up with a groan. This time, when he catches sight of Geralt he doesn’t faint. He still pales considerably, though Geralt supposes that’s probably because of his appearance. 

The wound in his stomach is large enough to see through, he knows. Geralt opens his mouth, to try and talk again, to try and assure Jaskier, to try to say _anything_ , everything that he couldn’t in life. Black blood rushes out instead, coating his boots and the floor in a translucent puddle. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. He cautiously gets up and steps closer to the Witcher. One hand reaches out, fingertips going _through_ Geralt where they should have been touching tacky blood and warm skin. Jaskier jerks back in shock, tears already making their way down his face. 

Jaskier looks...Jaskier looks tired, more than anything. A bone deep ache seems to have settled into his very pores, and Geralt can’t help but wonder just _how long_ he’s been rotting in the dirt for. 

“I thought...I thought I was crazy.” Jaskier sounds borderline hysterical, the words clawing their way out his throat with no filter. “Out of the corner of my eye, always flashes of white and gold and black. Geralt, it’s been _years_ , why are you here now, after all this time?”

In life, Geralt didn’t speak much, and when he did, more often than not, it was laced with sarcasm. But now that he can’t say anything without choking on a mouthful of blood, all Geralt wishes is to be able to speak. He wants…he wants to say everything he didn’t, couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , in life. 

Jaskier’s smile is wobbly, but true. “I guess we’ll have to wait for you to answer, huh?” 

Geralt tilts his head to the side, brows furrowing. A clear marker of confusion, a way of saying “Jaskier, what the fuck does that mean?” but in a uniquely Geralt way.

The sight makes Jaskier cry again. Through tears and snot, Jaskier manages an explanation. “Your wound, it’s not as see-through as it was.” Geralt looks down and finds the bard is correct. Jaskier continues. “I think, with enough time, you’ll be able to talk again.”

So Geralt waits, and waits. He watches over Jaskier as much as he can, always hovering just out of reach. When the bard doesn’t eat he musters up as much energy as he can to shove a plate in his direction. When Jaskier’s fingers still on his lute, and he gets a faraway look in his eyes, Geralt is there, in front of him. Intangible but present.

Slowly, slowly, Geralt’s wound heals.

Slowly, slowly, Jaskier begins to look more like himself.

When he’s not working on a new song, Jaskier likes to debate why Geralt is tied to him. “It must be unfinished business, right?” Geralt shrugs. “But what unfinished business could _you_ have? You, sir Witcher, who told me more than once that you wanted _nothing_ , that you wanted _no one_ needing you.” The poet pauses, and he’s looking at Geralt in a way that makes Geralt feel exposed. His voice is soft when he asks his next question. “What did you leave behind, Geralt?”

Geralt can only shake his head, still unable to answer. The blood has stopped pouring out when he opens his mouth, but his lips and tongue and vocal cords aren’t working in harmony yet to form words out of the garbled mess of sounds that emit when he tries to speak. He knows, of course he knows, why he’s attached to the bard. 

He’s surprised that Jaskier hasn’t figured it out.

But then, one night he catches the lyrics to the song Jaskier has been working on. It’s a soft melody, and Jaskier is almost humming as he works out the lyrics, but they’re loud enough for Geralt.

Jaskier starts over, beginning the verse again. _“With every single day, it won't go away. The way I feel about you, and when it's said and done you're the only one…”_

Geralt breathes for what feels like the first time in a long time. “Jaskier.”

The musician curses and jolts so hard he whacks his elbow on the chair he was sitting in. Geralt laughs, mostly because he can. He _finally can_. 

Jaskier glares at him.

“Was that song about me?” Geralt knows the answer. 

Jaskier straightens. “Who else would it be about, Geralt?” He sounds defeated, caught and wrung out like a cleaning rag. 

“I love you.”

“Is that why you’ve been haunting my dreams since you died?” Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, and lets it out shaky. “You don’t get to do this to me, Geralt. I’ve loved you for years and it took your death to get you to say it back?” Jaskier’s words are ones of anger, but his voice is just sad.

“I was…” Geralt frowns. “I didn’t want to tie you to me. It never ends well.”

“I miss you.” Jaskier’s voice cracks. “I miss you so much it hurts. I never considered myself one to get attached. It was always easier to just love shallowly, to be enamoured with whoever was in front of me because it was fun. But then you came along, with your…” Jaskier waves a hand in the general direction of Geralt. “Your everything. Your moral code, your eyes, your smile, the way you spoke to children, and the way, even though you like to say you didn’t, you _always_ got involved if it meant no more people had to die. Even when they spat on you, you were still the first one to help.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “But then you happened, and loving you felt so natural it was scary.”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. Everything, probably. “I love you and I was too afraid to tell you in life, but I’m here now. I wanted you to know, felt you deserved that much, at least.”

Jaskier’s smile is watery, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the most genuine one Geralt has seen in ages. “I love you too, you stupid, stupid oaf.”

A feeling of contentment rushes through Geralt. He had done what he wanted, settled his unfinished business. It was time to go. “Jaskier.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
When Geralt fades, there is nothing left. 

**Author's Note:**

> the song jaskier sings and the title are from [can't forget you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8iC6dQuZPVA) by my darkest days


End file.
